Wayward
by neutral
Summary: [au] Decades before the quest, Legolas encounters a human child named Aragorn, lost in the Mirkwood forest. He offers to guide him, but does not realize that evil is hunting the child revision


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Disclaimer: all characters and subjects belong to their original owners.

Author's note: a strange idea, inspired by a donut. It's definitely an alternative universe, as this story kicks around the timelines quite a bit, and adds a couple of rivers into the map of Middle Earth. Nonetheless, I hope it's readable.

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** Wayward**

By neutral

Chapter one - of meetings in the dark

//

_ Frodo lumped the edge of his blanket into a makeshift pillow, burrowed his face against it, grimaced, and shifted again. Everywhere he turned, there was something digging into his back, not painfully but with enough persistence to ensure that he would have no sleep at all._

_ Brushing back his blankets with a defeated sigh, Frodo sat up glancing at the shapes curled around the fire, and was relieved he wasn't alone in his restlessness. The rest of the fellowship—Pippin excluded; he was always strangely exempt from such things as these—all seemed plagued with the same troubled listlessness. Gandalf's pipe was lit and gently smoking. Gimli's axes were lined neatly before the fire and Boromir's sword gleamed from its second coat of oil. Merry, his arms tucked behind his head, watched the stars in a rare moment of peaceful contemplation and Sam, ever determined, was carefully cleaning plates from their previous meal._

_ There was a heavy silence resting over them that was almost suffocating in its intensity. Frodo wanted desperately for it to be broken, just to alleviate some of the gloom hanging over them all, but he didn't know what to say. _

_ There was a faint echo of voices and Frodo stilled, listening intently to the sounds. Two silhouetted figures stood further from company, side by side. With the firelight, Frodo could make out the indistinct features of the ranger and the elf. Surprised, Frodo only watched for a long moment. He could not remember many times he saw either of them speaking to each other; it had always been offering directions of suggestions for their path—always impersonal. _

_ Frodo folded his knees over the blanket and glazed the two figures curiously. Their voices were too quiet for him to discern, but even then, he understood their soft, tranquil tones. They were at ease, a quality Frodo had not noticed on either of them since they had set out from Rivendell. They must have been friends before the fellowship._

_ As if sensing himself watched, Strider turned and caught Frodo's eye. _

_ "Is something troubling you?" he asked._

_ "No," Frodo replied quickly. "I was only thinking." _

_ There was a barely perceptible exchange of glances between the man and the elf, and Frodo found himself under two pairs of scrutinizing gazes._

_ "Not about this quest," Frodo added when he recognized their concern. "I was wondering… but it's not my place to ask…" Frodo hesitated. Their quiet exchange was beginning to catch the attention of the rest of the company; even Pippin was groggily peaking at them through sleep fogged eyes. Frodo suddenly felt the weight of all their stares on him, and unconsciously, he drew away. "I was only wondering if you had known each other in the past," Frodo continued._

_ It didn't seem like a question Strider had expected. He paused before answering, sounding vaguely perplexed. "Yes."_

_ "Really?" Pippin cut in, suddenly very much awake. "How did you know each other?"_

_ Merry nudged his cousin with a foot. "Pippin!" he hissed._

_ Pippin shoved him back, but his blankets tangled around his arms and he only managed an awkward swipe at Merry's toes. "I was only asking!"_

_ "Of course you may ask," Strider said with a smile. "But it's a very long story that happened a very long time ago, and I'm not sure if it will be of any interest to you."_

_ Gandalf suddenly laughed, a deep, warm sound that echoed around the fire. "Not interesting? Aragorn, everything that you and Legolas were involved in resolved in some form of disaster. You must learn a more subtle way of excusing yourself from telling a story." He grinned at the expression on Aragorn's face, and Frodo had a vague sense that Gandalf had chided him like a child more than once in the past. "Legolas, come closer towards the fire. Wasn't Aragorn twenty the time you met him?"_

_ "He was eight," the corners of Legolas' mouth were upturned in an almost-smile._

_ Pippin's head shot up. Now, even Boromir and Gimli looked curious._

_ "Eight? I must be remembering a different tale." Gandalf frowned thoughtfully. "That was the year Aragorn was taken to the House of Elrond. I'm very curious about this one. I have never heard a complete account of this story. Legolas, how did this happen?"_

_ "It is much to tell at this time of the night," he protested._

_ "Come now, we have much time today," Gandalf refilled his pipe and leaned back comfortably. "This story will be a welcome reprieve."_

_ Neither of them spoke for a long moment. It seemed as though a shadow had passed over both their faces. _ Was there something they didn't wish to say? _ Frodo wondered, and felt regretful ever asking about their friendship. But then, Legolas lifted his head and looked at his friend. The glance they exchanged was brief, but it seemed that something unspoken had passed between them. _

_ "Aragorn, this is your story," Legolas said._

_ Strider shook his head, "My memory is not as clear as yours. There are many details I cannot recall."_

_ Legolas nodded and quietly moved to sit beside the ranger, his bow resting against his knee. Watching him then, Frodo remembered the fame of elven lore and of his uncle's fantastic tales. _Is their story anything like Uncle Bilbo's, I wonder?

\\

It was difficult to decide when exactly their story began, as there were so many happenings led to their less than cordial meeting in pitch darkness at night. Though for him, his story began at the Mirkwood stables. All of the misfortunes he had unknowingly brought upon them both into led back to a simple mischance of selecting the wrong horse for an afternoon ride. 

It was on a normal day, so commonplace that Legolas felt compelled to do something, anything, just a little out of the ordinary. He had been cursed with the duty to stand in for his brothers during one of his father's trade negotiations. After two hours of listening to advisors split hens for fish—freshwater, gutted, descaled—, Legolas more than eager to flee. Thranduil noticed his clenched fists and narrowed eyes and, with an amused smile, dismissed him.

Legolas left the hall, and as soon as he was out of sight, broke into a run. There was a particular restlessness stirring in him that day, more than usual, and he ached to ride out, unrestrained, in the forests. With a bow in one hand and a full quiver on his back, he made his way towards the stables. A fiery stallion at a secluded corner caught his eye in an instant. The young horse was a new addition, and it bristled with a wild energy that drew him like a flame. 

He loaded his usual provisions of food and a bedroll—one could never be too careful in these forests; he lived long enough to learn that simple lesson—and rode out alone. Times were more peaceful then, and it wasn't unusual for Mirkwood's youngest prince to be in the forests without an escort. 

When the Mirkwood gates faded out of sight behind him, Legolas couldn't hide the soft sigh of relief. Stroking the horse's mane, he leaned close and whispered into its ear, "Ride, my friend, as fast as you'd like. You're the master of these roads today." 

The horse tossed its head. For a moment, Legolas thought he saw a flicker of wildness in its eyes. With a grunt, it kicked off a furious pace through the forest. 

The horse was spirited but, Legolas discovered with some misgivings, not at all tempered. It weaved through the forests like a wayward ship and he found himself constantly adjusting his balance just to say on its back. Twice, it shot under a low branch that would have taken his head had he not ducked. Legolas pressed himself against the horse's neck and focused all his attention on staying mounted. 

The horse abruptly veered off the path and galloped headlong towards a thicket. Even in the dimming light of sunset, it was alarmingly obvious that the narrow growth wouldn't allow both of them to pass. Legolas pushed the horse's neck in an attempt to change its course, but the animal still tore forward. It charged headlong into a thick curtain of branches and, instinctively, Legolas swung his leg over its back and prepared to leap. 

He acted moments too late. As he turned, a sharp pain ripped across his leg and Legolas landed on the ground with less than usual grace. His right leg buckled the under his weight; stifling a grimace, he limped to alleviate the strain. 

The sounds of his horse crashing through the underbrush slowly faded in the distance. 

For a long moment, Legolas just stood and stared at the horse's tracks in a sort of bewildered surprise. He had been, not quite but very nearly, thrown from a horse. He had lived for two thousand years, and never once did any of his horses turn against him, but that young stallion had deliberately scraped him against trees. To say that he felt humiliated was putting it mildly. 

With an inward sigh, Legolas begrudgingly sat down on the grass to examine his torn leg. Blots of blood were seeping in patches through his leggings; from his ankle to his knee, the flesh stung and bled. He looked neatly skinned. It would be a day before he could walk comfortably again. Mumbling a few choice words—more to himself than the horse; it seemed rather futile to blame the animal then—he began tightly binding his leg with strips of his cloak. 

He camped where he fell that night. It would be foolish limping back to the palace; the walk, even with two functioning limbs, would have taken a fifth of a day, and the sun was already well on its way to setting. He had no intentions of luring spiders and wolves alike by spreading the stench of blood as he hobbled around at night. Therefore, Legolas decided as he spread his bedroll, he was safer where he sat. 

And that was how everything began. 

Footsteps. 

Legolas could hear the tremors from the ground as distinctively as if they were shouted. In a moment, he slipped out of sleep without the faintest movement, even as all his senses tensed in anticipation. 

More steps, cautiously quickening. There was a gut-twisting crunch of snapping branches, and the footsteps abruptly silenced. Its breathing grew thick and ragged. 

Its breaths were unusually loud, Legolas noted, but not hoarse enough to be a wolf and too shallow to be a horse. Its footsteps were oddly light, but it was not a practiced lightness that it walked with. The thing must be small—Legolas could tell from the shift of its steps—perhaps its full height was only half of his own. _Could it be a fawn…?_ No, it walked on two feet. _A Dwarf?_ That notion was laughably unlikely. _A Halfling? _Those beings rarely strayed more than a day's walk from their homes.

If he were anywhere but Mirkwood, he would have haphazarded a guess at the intruder being human. 

Another step, so close he could feel the shift in wind brushing across his neck.

Legolas stiffed, carefully scanning the forest without turning his head, but the intruder was out of his field of vision. He slowly slid his hand towards his bow knife, tucked securely against his side. Keeping his breathing even, Legolas gauged its distance and kept his body relaxed until he felt the shadow falling over him. With one quick twist, he whipped the dagger out of its sheath and swung. 

He felt more than saw the weapon meet its mark. He angled the dagger to strike out with the hilt and the intruder crumpled to the ground with a winded cry. Legolas glimpsed the stranger's face dimly illuminated from a patch of moonlight and something in the back of his mind cried out in warning. 

_ Its eyes are young, like a child's…_

Legolas froze. 

_ Rounded ears. A human… it's a human boy…_

Slowly, Legolas lowered the dagger, his breath hitching in a sharp gasp of disbelief. He had very nearly murdered a youngling in carelessness… 

The child—how old he was, Legolas could not tell, but he was smaller than a Halfling—stared up at him with wide eyes, his fingers curled over his bruised cheek. He was so still that, for a moment, Legolas feared that he had broken the child's jaw when he struck him.

Legolas soundlessly re-sheathed his dagger and drew back.

At the moment, the child scrambled to his feet and madly dashed for the forest. It took Legolas a belated moment to register that it was _his_ bag of provisions dangling in the child's hands. 

The human gave a startled yelp when he was suddenly lifted off the ground by the back of his coat. Legolas dodged his flailing arms and tried to pluck his sack from the boy's clenched fingers, but the thing held on with amazing stubbornness. When Legolas tightened his grip, the child gave a strangled gurgle and fell silent. Alarmed, Legolas loosened his hold and instantly regretted it. 

The child twisted around and, grabbing the closest limb he could snatch, clamped down with his teeth. 

//

_ Gandalf hid a grin behind his pipe. Strider sank in his seat and his face suddenly became very hard to read._

_ Merry's brow crinkled in confusion, "What do you mean 'Aragorn was very defensive when you caught him'?"_

_ "He was very young," Legolas explained simply. Catching the ranger's gaze, Legolas lightly tapped his left wrist. Strider coughed and hastily reached for a water skin._

_ "Strider tried to rob you?" Pippin whispered; his thoughts seemed to have been fixated on that ever since Legolas told it._

_ Pippin eyes were wide with something suspiciously like delight and Frodo, as much as he wanted to deny it and spare Strider the embarrassment, had to admit he empathized. Everyone else seemed to be in the same state of bewildered amusement. Gimli's pipe hung smoking between his fingers, forgotten as its owner stared openly at the ranger. Boromir seemed unable to decide whether to smile or frown—a corner of his lip kept twitching._

_ "I can imagine," Gandalf mused with a smile, "that Aragorn was a very… **determined** youth."_

_ The expression on Legolas' face was almost a grimace._

\\

Twenty minutes later, Legolas was discreetly nursing his throbbing arm beside the fire. Eyeing the two neat imprints of teeth on his wrist, Legolas inwardly sighed and wondered when the day had gone wrong. A runaway horse, a runaway child… they were not supposed to be mixed. Resignedly, Legolas strapped his wrist guard over the teeth-marks.

The child continued to ravenously devour his ration of bread in a manner that was alarmingly similar to a very desperate wrag. Embarrassed though not quite understanding why, Legolas turned away, slowly stirring the flames of the hastily constructed fire, and watched the boy out of the corner of his eye.

He was a strange small thing with thick black hair and wide blue eyes, very young, even for a human. His arms were like brittle sticks, bruised and scratched. There was a cut on his cheek that was red and swollen; Legolas wondered if he would bite him again if he attempted to bandage the wound. The thick coat he wore didn't seem to be his own; it swallowed him up in heaps of cloth that were obviously hampering his movements. There was a thick layer of mud plastered to it that made Legolas wonder just how long the child was lost and wandering through the forests alone. 

_ …long enough to be starved…_

The boy was fortunate to be alive, wandering like he did. But Legolas had to admire his spirit. Even after he was tired and starved, he was still determined enough to attempt looting, and then clawing and biting. Legolas' wrist was still stinging smartly from his efforts. 

The child swallowed the last of his bread and eyed the rest of the rations hungrily. Without a word, Legolas handed him a strip of smoked meat. The boy was eating an unusually large portion for his small stature, but Legolas had never observed a human's eating habits before. Perhaps it was custom for them to devour whole rations. Either way, Legolas had no comparison to gauge the child's appetite with.

The child looked at him again and, resignedly, Legolas held out the water skin. 

_ But why is a human here?_ Legolas frowned as he scrutinized the child. Mirkwood was known for its suspicion of strangers—men, despite their economic relations, generally avoided the area—, and the boy was too deep into the woods to have wandered without guidance. He must have been led some distance before he was lost. 

_ Men are in Mirkwood. Things do not bode well. _He had to return to his father immediately. 

"Who are you?" 

Legolas glanced at the child sharply. 

It felt strange being spoken to by a human when the only human contact he had were some assessing gazes as he stood at his brothers' sides during their many trips—diplomacy concerns, mostly, not his strength. Being spoken to by a human child was even stranger, and for a long moment, he simply said nothing. 

The child was undeterred. "Who are you?" he asked again with admirable, if not slightly absurd, boldness. 

Legolas blinked. After the child had attempted stealing from him, bitten him on the wrist, and then eaten all his food, now he was proceeding to interrogate him? _Are all men so ungrateful?_

"I may ask the same for you," Legolas slowly replied. The common tongue felt alien to him, and he spoke it somewhat stiffly.

"I'm not telling you my name," the boy snapped—still clutching at _his_ water skin, Legolas noted wryly—and squared his thin shoulders determinately.

Legolas tilted his head slightly at the response he received. "Then I cannot tell you mine."

The child glared, but with the smudges of dirt and bread on his face, the affect was completely lost. The sight was amusing, though Legolas could not explain why. The human was such a silly, small thing…

"How old are you, child?" Legolas asked after a thoughtful pause.

"I'm not a child!" the boy responded instantly with much indignance. "I'm eight, almost nine!" 

Legolas had to turn away very quickly to hide his smile.

"How old are you?" the eight year-old asked sullenly.

"Old enough," Legolas watched him carefully. "Why are you here, wandering the woods?" 

"Why are you?"

He should be exasperated by the way the human boy responded to his questions, but oddly enough, he was amused. _And men say elves answer questions with both yes and no; their children answer no questions at all…_

"My home is near here. Yours is not," Legolas searched the child's face again. "You are lost." 

He must have struck a particularly sore wound then, because the boy's eyes flashed with a deep, aggrieved anger that only a child could muster.

"No! I'm not!" the child shot back with clenched fists.

"If you knew anything about Mirkwood, you would not be traveling so deep in this forest. Any dangerous beasts lurk these woods, and for you to be wandering at night unarmed, you are almost sure prey for them," Legolas said quietly. "Why are you here?"

It didn't occur to him until after he spoke that perhaps frightening an answer out of a young, starving boy wasn't the most compassionate of actions. Watching the child's mask of anger—he wasn't truly angry, just terrified and uncertain and so lost—crumple, Legolas suddenly felt remorse.

"I… I was with my mother," the child whispered with downcast eyes—they were the color of a stormy sky, a shimmering pale gray. "And now I can't find her."

"How did you… lose your mother?" Legolas worded his question very cautiously. 

The boy twisted his sleeves with uncharacteristic nervousness, "I don't know. We were traveling west, that way." 

Legolas noted the child pointed in a direction that was nearly due east. 

"And she saw some wolves and said that we were in danger," the boy whispered, and Legolas could see more than hear the tremor in his voice. "We came here. She said it was safe. Mother became really tired after a while. A day ago… I think it was a day ago. Or maybe two days ago… or three… I can't remember! But she wouldn't wake up. I walked ahead a little, and I… I couldn't find her again." 

The boy hugged his knees and grew quiet. Legolas watched him, more bewildered than before. _A woman and a child traveling west?_ That was a strange direction to travel in, especially for humans. They should be traveling south to Gondor, or perhaps Rohan. _Perhaps there is more to this child than meets the eye…_

"What danger are you trying to escape from?" Legolas gently asked. 

The boy seemed to grow even smaller as he buried his face against his knees. "I don't know. But we're leaving home."

"Where is your home?"

The child grew very still. "It's gone. It… orcs," his voice began to waver and Legolas pretended not to see the tears that pooled in the boy's eyes. "Father died."

Legolas tensed.

"Mother says they killed him because of his name. It was his name's fault. He would have been okay if he wasn't him," the boy sounded so young then. He spoke with the desperation of someone desperate to be heard and understood. "Mother says they'll kill me too because of my name… because I'm Aragorn."

"Aragorn?" Legolas echoed, frowning slightly. That name, which to him did not seem strange or unusual, was enough to earn him death? The affairs of men were strange and complex, and Legolas wasn't sure if he wanted to learn them. 

"Mother says…I… I don't know! I don't know…" 

The child's shoulders were shaking. Legolas suddenly felt the painful clench of sympathy.

"Do you want to find her?" Legolas asked softly.

The boy nodded furiously, and his bright eyes grew watery. He scrubbed at his face with a muddied sleeve. He was so quick to anger and grieve, Legolas noted in a strange sense of wonder.

Perhaps it was the boy's innocence, so obvious in his every action, word, and gesture, or the simplicity that the child tried so desperately to hide, or the stubborn spirit that drove the him to such lengths, but Legolas found himself truly worried and fearful for the child. In the later years that followed, he could not explain why he did what he did following the child's admissions, nor could he recall his exact thoughts at that moment. It seemed pure whim that carried him through.

Legolas turned to the child and said very quietly, "I will help you in every way I can." 

*


End file.
